


Aim Higher

by periken



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Blood, Developing Friendships, Freeform, Gen, Gun Violence, Hurt, Mission Fic, Profanity, Teamwork, injured frank
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 05:53:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12928908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/periken/pseuds/periken
Summary: Frank Castle is in need of more heavy artillery weapons and plans to get them the way he always does. By stealing them.With the help of his recent new partner, Micro, the pair intervene a weapon shipment exchange between two gang groups. But when Frank gets injured on the job, Micro is forced to go out in the field to help him and hopes he isn't too late.





	Aim Higher

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place not long after Frank agrees to work with Micro. 
> 
> This fic contains no spoilers for the main plot of the show. :)

Only the slow crunch of gravel created by the steps of Frank’s heavy boots can be heard as he walks cautiously alongside the row of shipping containers leading deeper into the dock. He keeps a steady gaze ahead with fingers curled around a pistol, dressed in black from head to toe and a hood over his head to shield his face. 

A shipment of heavy artillery weapons is designated to be exchanged here in the docks at night between two gang groups. Micro had helped Frank track the crate of guns for days - its location was constantly disappearing and reappearing on radar. These guys covered their tracks tight. It was enough to stump even Micro. Nonetheless, Frank finally has his sights on it now. 

The sound of multiple voices become more prominent as Frank lurks closer to where the two gang groups are discussing about the deal. Frank shoots a quick glance up at the security cameras on one of the tall lamp posts illuminating the shipping dock in the dead of night. He knows Micro is watching everything through the cameras from his van, which is parked in the lot right outside the dock entrance. It still makes him slightly paranoid to know there is a second pair of eyes watching over him since his routine was to do anything and everything alone. Partner work was not a part of that routine. The only people he has worked with and could trust were his brothers-in-arms in the Marine. His second family whom he knew had his back. But as of recent years, gaining his approval of trust proved to be much more difficult after what happened in Kandahar and with the tragic death of his family. As to why the fuck he decided to break his work pattern and choose to trust someone like Micro is beyond even his own understanding. The man can barely keep himself together at the sight of a dead man yet alone hold a gun with the intention to use it. But Micro’s work of being an omniscient figure of the streets and data information seems to have proved Frank’s mind to believe it is of enough merit to counteract the disadvantage of the man’s fears of doing some out-in-the-field dirty work. Despite Frank’s usual habit of working alone, the recent discoveries of there being deeper, untold secrets of his family’s death story is what convinced him to trust the NSA analyst who has the capability to reveal all those involved in the incident. 

Frank slows his pace and comes to a halt when he can visibly see, from around the corner of the shipping container, the back of one of the men amongst the pack of guards. 

“We’ve got one leader in both groups. Group one with four guards and number two with three guards. Circular formation around their lead man. The guns we need are in the van behind the group furthest from you,” comes Micro’s voice from his earpiece.

”Copy ‘hat,” Frank responds as he eavesdrops on the men’s conversation, looking for the best chance to leap at his enemies. The two groups continue to discuss about their money arrangement and seem to be even striking up a new deal as well. Upon seeing no distracting opportunities, Frank curses under his breath. He glances around, eyes searching for anything that could be used to create his own distraction. He spots an empty beer bottle lying close to the edge of the dock. An idea comes to mind at the sight and he silently snatches the bottle. 

The conversation starts to die down and their voices recede further away - a signal that their deal was done. Frank peeks over and hurls the bottle as far as he can to the other side. The sound of shattering glass brings the small chatter amongst the men to an abrupt end as their attention turns elsewhere. The sound of the synchronized cock of several guns, the harsh scuffle of boot-against-gravel and an uproar of immediate suspicion all blend together - echoing in the air. Frank smiles as adrenaline courses through his body. He swiftly unveils himself out from hiding and knocks the closest man hard with the butt of his pistol. Heads turn to him when the man collapses to the floor, unconscious. Gunfire and shouts rattle in the air, but Frank has already hooked an arm around the next man’s neck, using him as a shield as he fires at the gunmen ahead, easily eliminating three of them with clean headshots. The remaining are hesitant to shoot their team member, but make an effort to try and shoot at him like moving target practice. Frank’s focus on dodging the incoming shots lowers his guard and he’s rewarded with a hard jab to the ribs from his hostage causing him to release his grip around the man and stumble back. Frank recovers quickly and just manages to avoid the shot aimed at his head from the freed hostage. But whereas the man’s attempted headshot fails, Frank succeeds with his shot. 

As more bullets whiz past him, he doesn’t have the time to retrieve the fallen man’s machine gun and instead takes cover behind the large shipping containers as bullets fly and deflect off with a metal clang. He curses, weaving around the mass amount of containers in the area to throw off his enemies. Stealth missions were never a problem for Frank. He’s disposed of a dozen of fully armed men in a matter of seconds before. Since when has nine become harder than twelve?

“Come out you fucking bastard!! Im’ma clip you with a dozen bullets,” a man shouts angrily, whom Frank assumes to be one of the leaders. 

“There are four left. Split into pairs, on your eight and five,” Micro informs him. 

Micro zooms in on the view of the camera that captures the vast majority of the area. A small figure scurries around the corner and disposes one of the gunman approaching. A flurry of white sprays of gunfire appears on screen and swiftly ends with the gunman’s partner’s defeat. 

“At your eight again,” Micro updates.

A swift corner shot and the man collapses. Frank swoops up the machine gun and tucks his pistol in the hem of his pants, his belt securing it in place. 

“Frank! Ele-“ Micro shouts, but it was too late. 

Frank lets out a cry of pain as a bullet lodges itself right under his left collarbone and another to his thigh. His trigger-finger instinctively fires, but the flashes of pain shooting through his body hinders the accuracy of his shots. Frank grits his teeth in agony, ducking behind the container, out of sight. He grunts, hands gripping the wounds as blood seeps through his clothing and quickly painting his hands red. 

“Fuck…” Frank curses. His eyes dart around, senses heightened as he tries to hear the crunching footsteps of his attacker. 

“You cannot escape!” the leader shouts and that mistake allows Frank to pinpoint his location.

“Shit, the second last guy has a scent of your trail, Frank,” his informant says to him as he drags himself along, circling around to the man who attacked him. Unaware of his presence, Frank fires several round of bullets at the lead gunman and he collapses, immediately going limp. 

“Who’s got a dozen bullets in ‘hem now?” Frank mumbles, spitting blood at the cadaver. 

The noise of footsteps closing in causes Frank to spin on his heels a little too quickly, momentarily forgetting about his wounded leg. He bites his lip, falling onto one knee. He pulls himself back up and hurries onward in search for the last gunman, unaware of the pistol having slipped out of its holding due to the stumble. 

“Coming from behind - around the corner,” Micro’s voice comes again. 

Frank drags himself towards the last man remaining, but when he rounds the corner with his machine gun aimed and ready, the man bashes the side of his face with the butt of a gun. Frank grunts, tumbling to the ground. He lifts his upper body enough to take aim and fires, but only manages to injure the man’s arm before he scurries off into hiding. 

“Motherfucker,” Frank curses again as he twists his head left and right in search while picking himself up, but the abrupt movement along with the loss of blood is making him feel light-headed. He goes to lean heavily against the shipping container, using it to keep his body upright, but the more he advances forward the more he starts sliding down against the metal wall. He grunts, his breathing heavy at this point as pain spikes in bursts throughout his body. He tears off a piece of his shirt and ties a knot around his leg wound before checking his ammo, finding only a few rounds left. After scanning his surroundings, he pushes to stand back up to avoid becoming a sitting duck for the enemy. 

“Where is he?” Frank growls to Micro, his voice straining. 

“I’m checking... I can’t find him,” Micro replies as he frantically cycles through the cameras, searching for the lone man. After clicking on his keyboard a few more times, he finds the man. Although what Micro sees equipped on the gunman makes his eyes grow wide with fear. 

“Shit shit shit no!” he cries in panic, shutting the laptop lid hard and ripping the connected headset off his head. He scrambles for the pistol Frank gave him before they left and hurriedly exits the safety of his van. His feet is planted firmly on the ground, but Micro can already feel his upper body trembling in fear, hands shaky with his grasp on the gun as he forces himself to walk into a field with a loose gunman. He has always been the behind-the-scenes guy, holed up in the warehouse and keeping tabs on everything. Never has he ever expected the need to go out and do some dirty work with his own hands. The thought terrified him and despite his instincts begging him to get back into the van, he knows Frank needs him now, whether the stubborn man is willing to admit it or not. 

He swallows hard, taking a deep breath before cautiously heading towards the area which he had spotted the man, constantly on look-out like a guard dog. A sudden click startles Micro and he swivels around, aiming in the direction of the sound, and his hands trembling frantically. As he rounds the corner, he catches a glimpse of a man making a turn around the corner ahead. Micro aims the gun, but the man disappears before he gets the chance to fire. 

“Shit, where did he go?” Micro mumbles to himself, looking around in even more fear and his fingers grip even tighter around his pistol. 

“Hey! What the fuck happened? Are you ‘here?” Frank hisses again as he straggles along the length of the metal container, moving slowly yet surely with the machine gun in one hand and the other against the wall for support. He can feel the blood still seeping through his clothing and every move brought a spark of pain. 

“Fuckin’ piece of shit…” Frank grumbles in frustration. 

Suddenly, from his peripheral vision, he notices a shadow emerge across the ground, casted by the orange glow of the lamp posts. Frank grips his gun, turns and fires - only to see the figure dash away in time and bullets creating sparks against the metal as it deflects off. 

Frank pushes forward quickly despite the burning pain flaring from his wounds. He follows the direction the man disappeared to, trying to use the drops of blood faintly visible in the low light to track his location. But at this point, it could be his own blood that he’s following. 

After taking a few more turns, he finally spots the shadow again, its silhouette slouched but not slow moving. There is no time for Frank to reach around the corner and knock the man out by surprise so he steels himself as the gunman’s footsteps approach him, aiming the gun precisely where the man would emerge. The man’s head comes into view and Frank pulls the trigger, only to hear an empty click. 

A wave of panic washes over him as his heart pounds hard and fast. “No no no,” Frank growls and fumbles for his pistol, only to find it missing from where he had placed it. The lone gunman spots him and reaches for something on his belt. A grenade. 

Fuck.

Frank uses all his strength to leap out of the way, but seeing the split second of time he has, there’s no way to escape the blast. 

This is it. 

A shot fires and the sound rings in the air, lingering for a moment before a cry of pain cuts sharply through the night sky. But the voice isn’t Frank’s. The gunman plunges to the ground, clutching at his side in agony. Frank takes the opportunity to scramble over to the dropped weapon and finish the job with a shot to the head. He looks up at who had fired the shot and finds Micro standing a short distance away with a gun in hand, still aimed as his body trembles and his face riddled in shock. Micro drops the weapon and rushes over to Frank, carefully lifting him up into a sitting position against the container’s wall. 

“God, I… I thought you were already dead for sure,” he says in a cracked voice, cringing at the sight of Frank’s wounds. 

Frank scoffs weakly before turning his head to spit out some blood. “Yeah, you wish,” he replies. He drags the sleeve of his arm over his lips to clean the fresh blood and glances at the dead man lying a few feet away. “Not a bad job you did over ‘here,” he remarks hoarsely, tilting his chin at the cadaver. 

Micro looks towards the dead body, watching the pool of blood spread from underneath, painting the dirt ground a dark red colour. “Ah, I guess…” he responds in a shaky voice as he scratches the side of his neck. “Seems I’m getting the hang of this getting-your-hands-dirty type of work thing,” he replies with a chuckle and a crooked smile. Despite his earlier thoughts on the idea of dirty-work and still feeling shaken with what happened, he can’t help but feel a sense of proudness with what he’s achieved tonight. 

“Hey,” Frank calls, prompting Micro to turn around and meet the soldier’s eyes.

“Next time…” Frank begins before raising a finger gun to his head, “aim higher,” he advises with a small smile.


End file.
